


Grey.

by ectothermal



Series: This Is Not What I Had Planned. [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, just a lot of trauma really, this kid's had a rough time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 19:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4973296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectothermal/pseuds/ectothermal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life has taught Carlos that it doesn't change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grey.

**Author's Note:**

> This is some backstory on a character of mine in an alternate serial killer universe - his struggle with trauma and how he became who and what he is.

Life has taught Carlos that it doesn't change. He is no longer a frightened teenager, but the feeling of his shins digging into johns' waists hasn't changed. The way they always underestimate him—always big, broad men with tiny Carlos—hasn't changed. The john waits too long to fight back. He is just like all the others. Carlos cradles his john's throat in the crook of his elbow, holds tight and flexes hard until the man's knees buckle under him; the sinking feeling of the drop doesn't make him flinch anymore. Blunt nails rake across his forearm but the fingers that wrap around his wrist are weak; seconds count down in Carlos' mind until he's out, until he stops breathing.

 

He is just like all the others.

 

Carlos goes through the motions. Drag the body to the bath. Douse it in peroxide. Pluck his wallet from his pants, take his money and his ID, get the fuck out. Take the bus home. Slide the locks. Hang the keys and jacket. Get in the shower. Don't get out until the water doesn't burn anymore.

 

Life doesn't change.

 

He lies on his bed, nothing but a mattress on the floor, and stares at the ceiling. He tries not to think about the first one, tries to occupy his mind with mundanities—like how to fill the new gap in his schedule, or what he should pick up at the grocery store in the morning. Carlos tries to keep him out, but he slips in slowly through the cracks; the quiet artist with smooth, dark skin and strong hands. How those hands used to hold Carlos down with ease while he fought and cried. The deep, sickening indent around his throat and his wide-eyed stare into nothing as Carlos pulled the phone charger free from his neck.

 

_I'll hit CraigsList tomorrow._

 

* * *

 

 

Headlights pull up along the sidewalk and Carlos stops in his tracks, watching his shadow deepen and stretch out in front of him. He expects the patrol car when he turns around, expects the enormous man who emerges from the driver's seat and the drunkard stepping up onto the pavement from the passengers' side; he smiles, shifting his weight to one hip as the officers approach him.

 

"Been awhile since I've seen my boys in blue, huh?" he purrs. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

 

"You know the drill, sweetheart," the giant chides, ushering him into the back of the car before turning to his partner. "Phil, get back in the car, what the fuck?"

 

"I gotta piss!"

 

"We’re going to your fucking _house_ , asshole!"

 

"I gotta piss _now_!"

 

"Phillip, you drunk piece of shit—"

 

"—Sully, I will piss in your _mouth_ if you—"

 

"Boys!" Carlos interrupts, unable to suppress the smirk that pulls the corner of his mouth when both of their heads whip towards him at once. "C'mon. I haven’t got all night." Phil zips his pants, grumbling under his breath while Sully gloats and slams the car door shut.

 

"So, we cleared out that body of yours last week," Sully says as he starts the engine, looking back at Carlos through the grating separating him from the officers.

 

"Yeah, and it was fuckin' boring," Phil whines. "It barely looked like you touched him at all."

 

"Shut up, Phil. He did a fine job. He always leaves us easy scenes to wipe." Phil scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Carlos, can I just say what a joy it is to clean up after you?"

 

"Sullivan," says Carlos, amusement clear in his voice, sliding forward in his seat to slot his fingers into the grating, "are you trying to flatter me?"

 

"Absolutely not! Unless it's working. Then absolutely yes."

 

"Sully, I like you way better than Phil and you already get special privileges. You don't have to try so hard." Carlos laughs while Phil splutters in indignation.

 

"What! Why don't I get special privileges?"

 

"Because you're rude and your whiskey dick is as insulting as it is disappointing."

 

"Wow, eat shit, Phil," Sully wheezes through his laughter. Carlos loves riling Phil up, loves sparking that desperate, volatile need to prove himself that burns deep in his gut. He's easy to read and easier to play; his blue eyes darken, worn face setting in hard lines as soon as Carlos plucks that string, as soon as both of their laughter fills his ears.

 

He shoves his way out of the car as soon as Sully pulls up to his house, throws the door shut and stalks inside all before Sully can cut the engine and release Carlos from the back.

 

"Alright, c'mon, you little shit," says Sully, bending down to lift Carlos over his shoulder and carry him inside. Carlos watches Sully's back as he sways with his steps; curiosity gets the better of him and he reaches nimble fingers out to pluck at the pouches on Sully's gun belt, to see what's inside and if it’s anything he might be able to use later, but a sharp smack lands on his ass before he can pull the snaps open.

 

"Ah! Okay, jeez, I just wanted to see," he whines, yanking his hands away from the belt and curling his fingers into Sully's uniform instead. Sully clicks his tongue, pushing Carlos' skirt up around his waist and tugging his panties off his ass.

 

"I can't believe this! Trying to steal from me, after all I've done for you? Carlos, you wound me." His voice is light with jest as he digs thick, strong fingers into soft flesh; he lays a few more smacks in that interrupt Carlos' giggles with gasps as he makes his way through the house to Phil's bedroom. He hefts Carlos off his shoulder and onto the bed; Carlos blinks through the head rush, dizzy for just a moment from the sudden change of orientation. He lifts his feet up and Sully pulls off his shoes and socks, tossing them towards the corner of the room before following suit with his panties.

 

He's affectionate, as always, soft kisses trailing after the firm hands that slide down the length of his legs; it makes Carlos wonder if he'd needed to make this deal at all, if he's had the officer wrapped around his finger from the start. He takes a moment to lament the seven or eight hundred dollars he could've been making every time the two of them wanted to fuck him together before the heavy thud of a gun belt hitting the floor draws him from his mind. Sully tugs him across the mattress and sinks to his knees in front of his hips, long arms pushing Carlos' thighs up to his sides. Warm breath tickles Carlos' skin, but it's momentary, replaced by the wet heat of Sully's mouth on his ass, the rough scratch of his beard.

 

"Oh, fuck." Carlos slides his fingers through the officer's dirty blonde, close-cropped curls, gripping tight to pull him closer.

 

"Oh, who’s rude now? Assholes, can’t wait two seconds," Phil interrupts. His weight dips the mattress and Carlos looks up to find him on his knees by his head. Sully pauses, lifting his head to throw Phil's snark back at him, but Carlos cuts him off before he can begin.

 

"Not all of us have the patience to wait and see if your dick is gonna show up for the party," teases Carlos, laughing as Phil rewards him with a hard slap across his cheek; the yelp it draws from his throat trails off into a groan as Sully's fingers wrap around his cock. Phil grabs Carlos' jaw, fingertips digging hard into his cheeks, and forces his head back into the mattress. Carlos grins despite his bruising grip, starting to breathe heavier as Sully works him slowly. "Is that what gets your dick hard, Officer? Hurting pretty little things like me?" He slides his hand up the front of Phil’s pants, pressing the heel of his palm in to feel his dick hardening underneath the fabric. Phil leans over him, hand slipping from his jaw to curl around his throat as Carlos pulls his fly open with practiced ease.

 

"Oh, sweetheart—"

 

"Phillip," warns Sully, but his partner ignores him.

 

"—you don't even know what hurt looks like." Carlos freezes, muscles tensing under his skin as if he's getting ready to run, and for a moment, his eyes go wide with an emotion that passes so quickly that Phil barely has the time to register it as fear. Sully mutters a small _'great'_ under his breath, separating himself from Carlos' body as the boy's expression turns sharp. Without warning, he rears back, balling his fist to punch Phil as hard as he can; Phil doubles over with a shout, tattooed hands flying down to protect his bruised cock. Carlos takes the opportunity to yank the baton from his belt, flicking his wrist hard to extend it before bringing it down on the back of his head. Phil falls forward onto his chest and Carlos makes a noise of disgust, shoving his shoulder to roll him away and dragging his legs out from underneath him. In one fluid movement, Carlos is up, swinging a knee over Phil's chest to pin his shoulders with his weight and holding the baton at either end to press it up under his jaw.

 

"You don’t know _shit_ about me, Tate," he spits, bearing down on the weapon as Phil tries to shove him off, weak and sluggish from both intoxication and the blow to his head.

 

"Alright, you’ve made your point," sighs Sully, looping an arm around Carlos' waist to lift him off Phil, already holding Carlos' shoes and underwear in his other hand. "Drop it." Carlos collapses the baton with a huff and tosses it onto the bed. "Phil, if you go to sleep, you’ll probably die, so don’t do that. I’ll be back in a bit."

 

* * *

 

 

Carlos broods in the car, dark glare boring through the window while Sully drives him home. The officer's fingers sink into his curls, tugging gently until he draws a heavy sigh from Carlos and he turns to face him.

 

"Hey. You know he's just dumb, right? He doesn't know what he's doing," says Sully. "Like, ever." Carlos scoffs, but leans into Sully's attention—anything to pull him out of the hollow parts of his mind, to keep him from settling into the person he is when he's alone. He draws small comfort out of the fact that Sully doesn't seem upset, a good sign that he might not wake up in the morning with all the evidence they've hidden for him brought to light.

 

"I don't like him," he says, after what feels like too much silence, too much of nothing but Sully's big hand sliding through his curls. Sully laughs, soft and light, at the confession.

 

"Yeah, not many people do."

 

Neither of them speak for the rest of the drive. Sully pulls up to the curb in front of Carlos' apartment complex, draws his fingers from his hair to put the car in park and clears his throat.

 

"So, uh. You have my number, so just. Call me if you need help, if you're in trouble or whatever—"

 

"Officer," says Carlos, one hand on the door handle, his playful expression from before spreading across his face, "you know, I live in kind of a bad neighborhood. There's some real creeps out there. Maybe you should walk me inside." He raises his brows at the end of his sentence, nonverbally communicating his intentions. Sully seems to inflate, both proud of being valued for his protective, sentimental nature and happy to be invited in.

 

"Yeah, of course," he says, a bit too enthusiastic, and practically rips the key out of the ignition. Carlos smiles. Easy. He lets Sully act the gentleman, waiting for him to open his door and offer his hand to help him out of the car. He lets Sully's hand hover at the dip of his back as they walk to his apartment, lets Sully hand him his key from the lip of the door frame even as he reaches up on his toes for it.

 

Carlos holds the door open for Sully as he tosses his key onto the table, bumping it closed with his hip once he's inside. He barely has time to draw the deadbolt before the show of chivalry is gone and Sully is crowding him against the door, hands dragging over his skin, under his clothes, sweeping away the rest of Carlos' lingering concerns that his slip-up had somehow lost the officer's favor. Carlos leans up on his toes, bracing his hands against the door to press his ass into Sully's hips. He delights in the low growl the officer emits, the strong grip on his hips turning rough as Sully grinds into him. His hand finds Carlos' hair again, pressing his cheek up against painted wood and holding firm; Carlos whines at the tug on his scalp, at the feeling of Sully's cock jumping underneath his clothes. Gradually, his focus narrows to a pinpoint, and he can feel himself sinking into the familiar state where all that matters is this, where his sharpness and tension evaporate.

 

Wet kisses trail along Carlos' collar that draw breathy, desperate sounds from him with ease; Sully wedges his hand between the tiny boy's hips and the door to work his dick in firm strokes. Carlos moans the officer's name, legs starting to shake from the burning prickle of effort from keeping himself on his toes.

 

"Oh my God, fuck me, please fuck me," he babbles, hips rocking into Sully's touch. Sully doesn't need to be asked twice. His arms wrap around Carlos' middle to pick him up and carry him across the small studio to his bed; as soon as Carlos is set down, he flips over onto his back, reaching up and grabbing the front of Sully's uniform to tug him down into a deep kiss. Sully gathers the fabric of Carlos' skirt in his fists and pulls it off of him in one swift motion, and Carlos hooks his legs over Sully's thighs, dragging himself down the mattress so that he can reach to unfasten his pants.

 

Bracing his hand on the bed by Carlos' head, Sully groans an appreciative 'fuck' as the little boy pulls his dick free from his uniform, immediately working into a rhythm, steady and sure. His shirt is rucked up and trapped under his arms and Sully presses fingertips into the stretch of exposed skin; his touch drags along Carlos' torso until his hand slips under his shirt, pushing it further up until Carlos has to let go of him to remove it.

 

"Jesus," Sully mutters, eyes following the graceful curves of the body below him as Carlos turns onto his elbow to reach over the side of the mattress. Carlos laughs under his breath at the familiar reaction. He pauses while Sully scratches his nails down his back and over his ass, making him shiver and purr, before he shifts onto his back again. He passes Sully the lube he grabbed from the floor.

 

"How do you want me?" he asks. Sully looks like his head might explode. Carlos raises his eyebrows, clearly amused. "Too much?" Sully nods. "Alright, ladies' choice," Carlos decides through his giggles, shaking his head as he turns over and pulls himself to his knees. He rests his weight on his forearms and curves his back invitingly, wiggling his ass as he settles his knees further apart. "Good?"

 

Sully's answer is the click of the bottle cap. Carlos stills in anticipation, but a soft, startled chirp still escapes him when Sully's touch returns to his skin cold. Sully holds Carlos' hip against his tendency to push back in impatience as he slowly presses a finger inside of him, curling in for that sweet spot; he watches for the lift of little shoulders and the sharp huff of breath that tell him he's found it. He keeps it slow and light, teasing quiet whimpers from Carlos' throat until he pushes against Sully's hold again. Sully takes the cue to pull his hand away, laughing under his breath at the frustrated _'are you kidding?'_ that bursts from Carlos' mouth. He returns with two fingers, patting Carlos' hip and pressing them in as slow and steady as before. Carlos moans as Sully starts rocking his fingers into him, every motion teasing his prostate.

 

"Sully, please, I swear to God," whines Carlos, rolling back to take his fingers deeper. That's all it takes; Sully's fingers disappear and Carlos watches over his shoulder as he slicks his cock. "Fucking finally," he groans, head dropping between his arms as Sully sinks inside, hands finding his hips again. All pretense of teasing is gone—Sully's grip is tight as he fucks hard into Carlos, a growl forming deep in his chest. Moans drip from Carlos' open mouth and he wraps his fingers around the edge of the mattress to hold himself in place.

 

Carlos gets lost easily like this, with strong hands holding him steady and hips smacking into his ass, the ache that builds in his arms as heat spreads out from his core, every thrust that hits just right and sparks his nerves—everything blurs together, flooding his mind until he doesn't have room to think. Blindly, he presses a hand against the wall in front of him for leverage to push back on Sully's cock, building his own rhythm as Sully stills and releases his hips to let him move.

 

Sully's hands slide through his hair as he watches Carlos' ass bounce on his dick, the sounds of skin on skin replaced with just their labored breathing, the drawn-out whine when Carlos finds that perfect angle. Sully hits his limit of patience fast, needing his hands full of the beautiful boy below him again; Carlos huffs out a laugh as the officer gathers his ass in both hands, squeezing hard before traveling up the curve of his back. Sully is heavy and Carlos' hand slips on the wall, but in an instant the pressure disappears—he pulls his arms behind him instead, strong grip folding his forearms together at his back and pressing his shoulders down into the mattress. He uses his weight to hold Carlos down, to fuck him harder, and he can feel the boy melt under him, feel the last of his stubborn grasp on control slip away under his haze. Even his fingers go lax, curling naturally into his palms as Sully shifts his hold into one hand.

 

He reaches around the little body to take Carlos' dick in his hand, pumping him in time with his thrusts. Carlos' noises take on a desperate edge and jump up in pitch; his fingers flex behind his back, begging for the release that his mind is long past forming the words to ask for.

 

"Come on, pretty baby," Sully murmurs, keeping his pace steady, "let it go." Carlos spills into his hand with a cry, muffled by his sheets as his thighs shake against Sully's body with his orgasm. Sully groans, the pit of fire burning in his abdomen telling him he's close, and he pulls out, sticky fingers digging into the crease of Carlos' hip as he slides his cock against his ass until he finishes over his lower back. "Fuck," he pants, sitting back on his heels and releasing his hold on Carlos; he watches as the boy sinks down to lie flat on his stomach, boneless without Sully keeping him upright.

 

He searches around the boy's bed, predictably finding a box of tissues; he drags it onto the mattress, cleaning himself up and fixing his pants before turning his attention back to Carlos. Gently, he rolls Carlos onto his back once his skin is dry and takes a seat next to him, pushing his hair out of his face and wiping the drool from his chin with his thumb. Carlos is still dazed, heavy breaths lifting his chest; Sully pets him, lazy and slow, stopping just below the dip of his collar bone to drag his fingers back down, above his belly button to drag his fingers back up, until Carlos' breath slows to match the rhythm.

 

"There you go." Sully's praise seems to draw Carlos out—he blinks back to life, stretching his arms above his head as his usual abrasive demeanor settles over him. Sully sighs, patting Carlos' waist lightly as he moves to get up. "Alright, Carlos, I gotta go make sure Phil's not dead," he says, pausing to straighten his uniform as Carlos watches him from the floor through half-lidded eyes. "You good?"

 

"I'm fine, Sullivan," yawns Carlos, eyes rolling even as a smile draws across his face. "Just lock the door on your way out."

 

—

 

When Carlos dreams, he dreams about the artist. Everything is always the same. His saccharine tone of voice. The cool-toned deep brown of his skin and the stark contrast of his teeth when he smiles. The smile is the first sign, but Carlos couldn't place it then. The chill of it, sharp as a blade and just as unnerving. Remnants of oil pastels linger on the ends of his fingers from class, dragging grey smudges across Carlos' cheek and neck and collar. They are alone in the artist's room and nobody is in the house and Carlos' heart pounds and his voice wavers when he says that he should go. He knows that when he tries to get up to leave the artist's touch will turn hard and unforgiving.

 

The artist asks him where he's going. His tone is still light, familiar, sickly sweet and effortless, but his fingers are locked around Carlos' forearm. He pulls, and Carlos bounces back where he started, sat on the edge of the bed. He tells the artist he wants to go home, wrenches free from his grip; long grey streaks skip along Carlos' skin. It's quiet for just a moment, eyes locked, neither of them moving. The artist's smile is gone. The calm before the storm.

 

Long fingers start to reach toward Carlos again and the storm breaks; he lunges to run but the artist catches him with fists twisted in the front of his shirt and they crash together on the floor. Carlos kicks and screams, cries to be let go, tries to drag himself backwards towards the door. The artist tugs him back, the carpet rubbing Carlos' elbows screaming raw. He puts all his weight on Carlos' little chest, presses his hips snug against his ass. The feeling of him hard between their bodies spurs Carlos' fight, the heel of his shoe slipping off the artist's side in his attempts to shove him off. The artist starts to pull Carlos' pants open and he desperately pushes his hands away, over and over, tears burning their way out of his eyes.

 

_What is the matter with you?_

 

The artist stops to grab Carlos' wrists, easily encircling both in one hand and pressing them into Carlos' chest. Carlos struggles, dragging the pressure of the artist's fist higher and higher; he freezes when the cluster of limbs reaches his collarbone, afraid of the heavy weight concentrating on his throat.

 

_You shouldn't play so hard to get, baby._

 

The artist's voice distorts through Carlos' panic. The words reverberate in his mind, jumbling together and obscuring his understanding. He still kicks, but it's no more effective than before; he feels weaker, less controlled, the burn of distress in his muscles turning him to rubber. He barely recognizes the voice that croaks out through his sobs, begging the artist to stop.

 

_Don't play games. I know you've wanted this for years._

 

Carlos squeezes his eyes shut, tries to will himself to disappear, to be anywhere but here. The sound of the artist's zipper seems louder than any other sound that came before it. Carlos hears him spit into his hand.

 

_I remember. Always watching me. You thought I didn't know._

 

He shakes his head _'no'_ , resisting the artist's pressure, the carpet tugging and snagging on his hair underneath him. He wishes he could stop crying.

 

_You should be thanking me._

 

_Look at me._

 

_I said look at me._

 

_Fucking look at me._

 

The third time, the words come punctuated with a slap to Carlos' cheek. Carlos can't even think to hold back the cry that bursts from his throat. The artist's every motion jolts his body; his sobbing chokes him and he gasps for air, dragging breath like fire through his raw throat and burning lungs. When he opens his eyes, he can hardly see through his glasses, the lenses smeared with tear tracks from his eyelashes.

 

_Don't be dramatic. This doesn't even hurt._

 

Time seems to stretch on and on, and Carlos thinks that maybe this is it, that this is his hell—an eternity of stinging pain, of bone digging into bone, of struggling to breathe, of feeling like his skull is going to split apart, too clouded from the pain to try to fix any part of it.

 

He's embarrassed by the relief he feels when the artist finally finishes.

 

He drags his shaking body back as soon as the artist lets his hands go, curling into himself on his side. He struggles to fix his pants, clumsy from his spot on the floor and his unsteady hands; he catches the artist reaching toward him in his peripheral and he recoils, scrambling backward again.

 

_Don't be like that._

 

The artist's hands curl around his jaw, holding his head firmly in place even as Carlos tries to shove him, hit him, anything, hoarse voice protesting with repeated _'don't touch me'_ s and _'fuck you'_ s, a solitary _'Tim!'_. Their lips connect and Carlos goes still from the shock. The artist takes it as an invitation. Moments pass before Carlos finds himself again, desperate fingers scrabbling across the floor—he doesn't know what he's looking for, but he connects with a power cord and tugs it out of the outlet, still trying to twist his head free of the artist's grip.

 

It comes to him all at once. He's winding the cord around the artist's neck before he realizes what he's doing, pulling it taut and wedging his knee between their bodies to push him up and hold him away. The artist releases his face in his surprise, hands flying to his neck to try and hook under the cord and relieve the pressure. Fear dawns in his wide, dark eyes. Carlos pulls harder, pushes harder. He turns his face away from the trail of spit dripping from the artist's lip. His weight goes limp above Carlos but Carlos hesitates to release his hold, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

 

He chances a look at the artist. The indent of the cord is deep and Carlos starts, tipping the heavy body to the side and willing himself not to be sick.

 

Pushing himself up onto his knees, he catches a glimpse of his arms, streaked and marred with grey fingerprints. He tries to wipe the marks away, stomach dropping when they do nothing but spread, merging into a solid block of color that only deepens in intensity the more he scrubs at it. Panicked sobs choke through his tortured throat anew.

 

Carlos wakes up in his bed, hair and sheets plastered to him with his sweat. He sits up, fighting down his urge to cry, to scream, to vomit; he swore to himself he'd never be that weak again. He swallows it down.

 

He pulls himself out of bed, shaking through the short walk to the bathroom, and runs the shower, waiting until the water steams before settling on the floor of the bath. The water runs his hair into his eyes and he blindly pushes it back, staring at the faucet for what feels like ages before he finally looks down at his body and releases the breath he didn't know he was holding. His skin, naturally tan and warm, tinged pink from the heat of the water, looks nothing like the cold, dark, ashy grey he sees when he closes his eyes.

 

He stares until the water runs cold.

 

* * *

 

 

The next night, he has the same dream. He wakes the same as before—shaking, sweating. Before he can run his shower, the urge to vomit overtakes him, interrupting his practiced routine.

 

The night after that: the same dream again. He doesn't get out of bed, doesn't run the shower; instead, he stares at the ceiling fan as it turns steadily, cooling his sweat-damp skin. Sobs bubble up from his gut and tears spill down his cheeks, soaking into his pillow behind his neck. He doesn't feel like he can move; his limbs are heavy, close to numb. He's almost glad for it, so afraid of looking at himself and seeing the grey that he thinks he could lie there until he rots.

 

He doesn't give the dream a chance to hit him a fourth time. He loads his bag for work with clumsy, tired fingers and hopes his glasses disguise how deep the circles under his eyes have sunk. He waited too long and he knows it; the thought weighs heavy on his mind as he coils his garrote, meticulously making sure the loops of the cord are uniform before he tucks it into a side pocket in his bag. He's always known what quiets the nightmares, what washes away the grey.

 

He doesn't know why, every time, he thinks it could be different. That _he_ could be different, that he could wait it out, as if he could force the fears embedded in his bones to grow bored of him by pretending it didn't hurt.

 

On the bus, he leans his head against the window. It's hot, even this late at night, and Carlos thinks he could fall asleep if it weren't for the rumble of the vehicle rattling his brain inside his skull. Nobody else is on the bus, and the driver doesn't care, taking too-fast turns that hurl Carlos' face against the glass. He steps out a block from the hotel with an angry red mark on his cheekbone and the knowledge that it's better than the alternative.

 

His heart pounds in his ears in time with his steps; he walks tall in spite of the overwhelming weight of his head, unwilling to sacrifice his illusion of capability to the fact that he's too exhausted to be here. He strides through the lobby unnoticed—the receptionist is asleep on her arms behind the front desk. Carlos listens to her muffled snores while he waits for the elevator, glancing at his work phone to find his john's room number.

 

There's a buzzing noise inside the elevator that sets Carlos' teeth on edge. He clenches his jaw tight to keep the sensation of vibration down, but he swears he can still feel it, can still feel hairs prickling at the nape of his neck. As soon as the doors open, he lunges out into the hall, sucking in a deep breath as the insistent buzzing is replaced by the low hum of air conditioning. The hallway seems to go on forever, and he squeezes his eyes shut to fight the feeling of vertigo.

 

Carlos steels himself, wetting his lips and smoothing out his clothes as he attempts to regain composure, to emulate the poise and control of the persona he wishes were real. He raps the back of his knuckles against the door once he finds his room and prays that he doesn't look like his mind is falling apart as the door swings open.

 

Eddie is tall—over a head taller than Carlos—and handsome, with thick, dark strawberry blonde hair and a strong, yet broken nose. He steps aside to allow Carlos through the door, and Carlos slips past his extended arm, turning to face Eddie as the latch clicks shut.

 

Carlos could count the amount of times he'd met with Eddie on one hand, and he was still finding his footing with the client, but he always noted that the man seemed to both have an ease about him at the same time as a cold distance. Eddie is almost unnervingly calm and level-headed, but his eyes give off something else, something deeper, darker. Hungry, thinks Carlos.

 

"How've you been, Eddie?" Carlos breaks out of his stillness, smiling warmly and shifting his bag off of his shoulder. "What am I in for this time?" Eddie chuckles with Carlos, but it unsettles the smaller man, as if Eddie were just laughing because he was supposed to. A spark of frustration flares up in Carlos, normally so proud of his ability to charm, to twist men around his finger and under his thumb, at the concept that he can't sway Eddie. That Eddie has no pendulum. No heartstrings.

 

"Same as always, Alex," says Eddie. "Work. Projects. More work. You know how it goes." Carlos hums his response, slipping out of his shoes and nudging them under a chair with his toes. He rests his bag on the seat of the chair, fingers dipping into the side pocket to curl around his garrotte; though the material of it is familiar to him, he almost expects it to feel colder, startlingly cold. More dramatic, somehow. Meaningful. Something more than a routine.

 

Carlos doesn't realize he's holding his breath until he hears a metallic click in the silence behind him. Eddie's hand curls around his jaw, forcing his head back against his broad chest, and the cool press of a sharp blade against his throat makes him shudder. Makes him freeze.

 

"You know, Alexis," Eddie says, even-toned and almost conversational, "you would look so goddamn pretty on my mantle."

 

Carlos sparks to life with his fear, yanking his garrote from its hiding space; he slings it over the back of Eddie's neck and twists, pulls, winds it around his shaking fingers. The vice of Eddie's grip disappears along with the blade. The resistance of the cord gives out in an instant and throws Carlos' balance, sending him stumbling into the chair in front of him. He flings himself to the side, the soft sound of the knife embedding into the back of the chair following just seconds after, and scrambles along the rough hotel carpet with blood pounding in his ears and throbbing in his fingertips.

 

It's sunk in deep, and Eddie strains to remove it; Carlos takes his chance, pulling himself to his feet, and, using one foot on the mattress for leverage, launches himself onto Eddie's back. Eddie is solid, only moving a step forward to keep his balance. Carlos hooks his elbow around Eddie's throat, relief flooding him at the familiarity as he puts pressure on Eddie's pulse.

 

Eddie thinks fast, and Carlos' upper hand disappears as quickly as it came as Eddie reels back, slamming Carlos into the wall with his weight. Carlos fights to hold on to Eddie as he repeats the blow, but his head smacks against the edge of a picture frame and he releases Eddie's shoulders as he cries out in pain, hands flying to the spot on his skull. He checks for blood on his fingers and finds them clean as Eddie turns around, and for a moment, he's a deer in the headlights—frozen as his eyes dart between the man towering in front of him and the exit only feet away from him.

 

He breaks for it, ducking Eddie's arm to run for the door, but strong fingers wrap around his bicep that break his momentum and he hears a sickening pop; fire explodes through Carlos' shoulder and drops him to the floor. He doesn't think he can breathe, gasps for air punctuating the pitiful sounds his throat can't hold back.

 

Carlos' whimpers of pain dissolve as Eddie looms over him, the solitary light in the center of the room casting his shadow over Carlos' body; before he knows it, Carlos is laughing. He cups his dislocated shoulder as he rolls onto his back, his laughter shaking his body and bouncing around the small room's walls, unnaturally loud with no other sound to cushion it. He hears the deep tones of a chuckle starting underneath the sound of his own voice; Eddie kneels down beside him, laughter growing until Carlos can hear it over his, full-bellied and warm and real. It sends a bubbly sensation through the tips of his fingers and his toes, the weight of the past week, of his nightmares, finally lifting. He hasn't felt this light in years.

 

Carlos shakes the half of his broken garrote still wound around his fingers away, reaching up to pull Eddie into a kiss by the front of his shirt. Eddie's hand finds Carlos' throat, fingers wrapping around with no pressure—just resting. Claiming. Eddie pulls back before long, thumb dragging down Carlos' throat to the dip in his collarbone; a smirk pulls at his mouth as the little boy's breath hitches under his touch.

 

"Let me fix your shoulder," he says.

 

Eddie has it down to muscle memory, popping Carlos' joint back into its socket with little effort; the pain takes the wind out of Carlos again, but it's fleeting, and he gingerly tests his shoulder through the lingering soreness.

 

"Thanks, Eddie."

 

 

"Tom," says Eddie.

 

"Tom," Carlos repeats, processing the new name—his real name. "I—Carlos. I'm Carlos."

 

Silence falls between them. Carlos thinks he might have really lost it this time, but with his dark eyes locked with Tom's bright blue ones, he finds he doesn't care.

 

"So, Tom," he says, fingers twisting into the fabric of Tom's shirt again, "what are those projects you were talking about, anyway?" Tom chuckles again, the _real_ laugh, the deep, smooth sound lighting sparks down Carlos' spine.

 

"I'm working on a gallery spread," he says.

  
"Well." says Carlos, unable to hold back the sly smile that tugs the corners of his lips. "I've always had a thing for artists."


End file.
